ice queen
by kat.reine
Summary: AU: Caitlin is the queen of Snowcastle. When one stormy night leads her to find a wounded man in the forest, she nurses him and finds out that the man in scarlet is a prince of another kingdom. What happens when they fall in forbidden love with icy hearts and bloody anguish?
1. saving grace

_AN: Bonjour all! Here is my first Snowbarry fic, set in an alternate universe of royalties and fairy tales. I do hope my fellow SB shippers will appreciate this as much as I do. The dynamic of Caitlin and Barry's relationship is so great that it could fit into any timeline or universe. Anyway, reviews, follows and plain simple appreciation is greatly taken into heart. ❤️ Do leave a review after reading, and tell me how you want the story to go :)_

 _Without further ado, here is chapter one._

Caitlin is cold.

It's not a feeling that's foreign to her—living in a castle surrounded by eternal chill and frost is something that has grown on her, or rather, innate to her being. Years of winter, unyielding to the world moving in summers and autumns around it, has taught Caitlin nothing but the feeling of coldness, seeping into her bones and into her being.

So it's an unwelcome surprise for her to feel cold, as she steps onto the slippery ground, the cold from the ice emanating and chilling the tops of her feet, encased in woollen boots. The air pushes her forward, with a bite that others would fear. But Caitlin pays it no mind, and continues to trudge towards the winter that she has known for so long.

The sight is as familiar as the cold: a vast expanse of a forest of thin, dead trees frosted with snow and the ground crystalline and firm under the crackle of boots and padded shoes. She takes four steps forward, slowly, with control, as not to slip, and suddenly her centre of gravity shifts.

Caitlin does not know it, but from that moment forward, her world will change.

The first sight she sees is a scarlet pool of blood, quickly spreading on the smooth canvas of ice that it lays upon. Next follows the fallen sword, a sterling thing of beauty, caked with blood on the handles and the once-shiny blade. The sight that succeeds is one that ultimately shocks her, and against her will and carefully constructed common sense, pushes her forward, the clank of her boots loud and reverberating against the stillness of the forest.

A man lies on his right side, with blood pooling underneath him. His left hand awkwardly hovers over a region on his right, and with fearful, wide eyes, Caitlin notes that the source of blood comes from the man lying on the cold, hard forest ground. He is dressed in robes and clothing of scarlet shade, as well as his high riding boots. Caitlin sees the fallen sword on the ground and realises that the sword must be his, but perhaps not the blood on it. She reaches out for the man, both afraid to find a breath and not, and with slow, hesitant fingers, she presses her fingers against the man's smooth neck, and finds a pulse there. Slow, but defiant, as if it were fighting the final frontier against death.

With no time to waste, Caitlin slides an arm underneath the man's torso, and hoists him up despite the heaviness brought on by his body and armour. He does not grunt or offer a breath, and Caitlin is genuinely terrified at the thought of this man dying in her arms. Fuelled by fear and adrenaline, she carries him back to her horse, and slings him over the short body, careful not to let him or any of his limbs crash against the young filly's body. The man lays in stillness, and Caitlin realises that time has to stop in order for him to heal. She coaxes the young filly to move forward with a soothing, calming voice, and she succeeds.

They make it into the castle double the time it took for Caitlin to move out of it, and with every step they make, Caitlin looks fearfully at the man splayed on the filly's back, still unmoving, and heaving breaths that could either mean death or survival. Once they cross the threshold, she hoists him up again, all of his weight crashing on hers, and Caitlin carefully steps along with him, careful not to drag him along like some young girl's rag doll.

They begin to ascend the stairs and after an immeasurable amount of time, make it into one of the vacant rooms of the palace. It's bare, save for a huge bed with a canopy of plain ivory, and Caitlin is glad that it's immaculately clean. She lays his body on the bed, from the head to both of his heavy feet with care and tact. For once, the man ushers a grunt out of his frostbitten lips, and Caitlin revels in the sound, sighing with relief.

Caitlin moves over him, her dark auburn curls providing a shadow over the man's head, and carefully checks any damages on his head. She tactfully presses and massages until a strong grip on her wrist shakes her and she finds herself looking in the man's eyes.

They're green as emeralds and tinted with specks of hazel, and she finds herself mesmerised and a little stunned, as if this were the first time she did such a thing, and really, it was. His eyes are altogether a pleasant sight and a beautiful distraction, framed by long, girlish lashes and dictates a masculine, all-consuming stare.

For a while, all Caitlin does is stare at those beautiful eyes, the fingers on his head numb and unmoving, and she waits for a pin to drop, to shake her out of her reverie. But the room is interminably silent, until a voice speaks out of it.

"Angel," the voice whispers, rash and raspy but gentle all the same, and Caitlin sees that his lips have moved to create the sound, and all she does is look at him and wait for him to say something else. Realising that he must require a response, she finally opens her mouth and says, "No, I am no angel," with unmistakable firmness but a waver in it, no doubt coming from the feelings that shook her up ever since staring into the man's emerald gaze.

The man stares at her, seemingly gifting her with a gaze probing and loving at the same time, and she is stunned by the next few words he rasps. "My…. angel," he says, and with a surefire certainty that Caitlin hasn't seen in anyone else, he presses his cold lips against her own.

Caitlin is shocked and unmoving, and suddenly the man staggers back onto his pillow, his eyes closing and those lashes long against his smooth cheek.

It was a short surprise, but a surprise nonetheless, and Caitlin almost slaps herself for wanting to close her eyes and feel the warmth only their lips share. She shakes her head and looks at the man's face, cherub-like, in consciousness and without, and Caitlin fights for her steely resolve until she finds it.

 _This man is trouble. Do not attach yourself._

With weak knees, she descends the stairs and goes into the infantry and searches for the tools and medicine she needs for his healing, and once she has her arms full, returns to the man's side. With the ease of an expert and the eye of a marksman, she spots and covers in concoctions and bandages every wound that has made it into his body, and deftly stops the bleeding in the largest wound at his right side, pressing a clean cloth firmly and securing it with swathes of gauze. She presses more firmly, exerting greater pressure, and finds that it has ceased bleeding, albeit for no permanence. Caitlin notes that the man is silent and has fallen into unconsciousness once again, and for the first time, Caitlin bothers to look at the man's features.

She is sure that she has never made this kind of pleasurable mistake before.

His face is angelic, and ends with a jawline strong, with features boyish and manly all at the same time. His hair falls away from his face, brown locks lush and soft enough to lose one's hands into. His body is lean and long, with limbs that could have been lanky but instead are sinewy and roped with muscles, but not to the point of bulkiness. This man has a face fit for a prince and a body fit for a ruler. Caitlin thinks of what his mind must be like, but she freezes herself and looks at the man again, lying amidst pillows and sheets of ivory, his scarlet armour providing a striking contrast to the pristine white sheets.

All in all, the man makes a very pretty picture to look at.

 _But that's all he is, Caitlin_ , she scolds herself. _A picture, a vision._

 _A man._

Caitlin steals one last, long look at the man, and, for the second time of the day and in her life, proceeds to walk out of the room with unmistakable steely resolve and wobbly knees.


	2. lost

**A/N: _Hello, all!_**

 ** _Here's chapter two of my Snowbarry fantasy fic. Thank you for all those who gave heartwarming reviews! I'll try to weave references in and out of the storyline, but please do reviews of how you want the story to go! I hope you like it!_**

 ** _This chapter's written in Barry's POV, by the way._**

For the first time in years, Prince Bartholomew Henry Allen of the Central Kingdoms is lost.

But if he were to be asked, he wasn't really lost. Not really.

With a strong flick of his horse's reins, they gallop across the forest, with every step taking them farther away from the heart of the kingdom and deeper into the heart of the cold, dark forest.

Prince Bartholomew—or Barry, as his fondest friends and confidantes often call him—looks around the canopy of thin trees, dark and terrifying to some. His green eyes scan over the expanse of trees and nothing else, and even as some might take a fearful step back to the familiarity of the city, Barry is only fuelled by the strangeness of the forest and what lies within.

"Barry, admit it," a voice beside him heaves between heavy breaths, "we are truly lost."

Barry haughtily laughs at this and cranes his neck to look at his friend and best running mate. "Fat chance, Cisco."

Prince Francisco Alfonso y Ramon—simply Cisco to him and his friends, as he doesn't bother with long titles and names that are only used to address them when they're frolicking in a huge ballroom and hardly paying attention—fixes a stare at him, and Barry refuses to tell him that despite the elegance of his gold and navy armoire, a twig stuck in his tresses might render the whole image of him laughable. Instead, he keeps his mouth shut and hopes that Cisco won't force his hand into returning back with him to the castle, and hopes that he will keep his company longer as they explore the dark recesses of the forest. His running mate looks up at him with a glare underneath untamed eyebrows, and Barry manages to let out a chuckle and put on a smile that's been proven to charm even the highest of queens and duchesses. Cisco. only rolls his eyes at his antics and frowns. "That only works on members of the opposite sex, I'm afraid. None of your charm will ever work on me."

Barry merely raises an eyebrow and taps his horse softly forward, continuing down the undiscovered path. Cisco lets out a strong breath and crosses Barry's horse, effectively halting him. With a shocked face, Barry looks at Cisco. "Let me through, Cisco."

"No, Barry. We are lost. It's going to be evening soon, and our parents will go ballistic at the knowledge that we faked our presence at the jousting tournament and send out a battalion to find us."

Repressing the urge to roll his eyes, he merely bypasses Cisco, albeit impressed at the tact and brevity of Cisco's words, which do absolutely nothing for him and continues upon the path that he set out upon. "We'll be fine, Cisco. We are grown men out for a ride on healthy horses. Surely, our mothers would rather we did this than chase some girls and look up their skirts." Cisco's eyes gleam at the idea and lifts his eyebrows suggestively, to which Barry gives in the urge to roll his eyes. "Surely you've got better things to keep your interests, other than chasing young ladies," Barry states dryly, and Cisco shakes his head, their horses tapping along a soft rhythm on the forest floor. They both look forward to the path they're going towards, and Cisco speaks. "I've got nothing else to do but to attend balls and soirees lately, as my mother has been forcing me to find a suitable wife." This time, Barry's the one to shake his head, the circumstance all too familiar to him. "A suitable wife…" he purses his lips and Cisco rests his head down. "How about that lady…. Lisa?"

"Duchess Snart?" Cisco snorts, and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I seem to remember you hit it off quite nicely at the last ball we went to," Barry smiles wryly and recalls the kiss the duchess and his friend shared in the midst of the festivities. "It was all that ale and champagne they had doled out. Blame it on the alcohol," Cisco finishes with a downward turn of his lips, and Barry laughs. "You can't fool me, Cisco. I don't think I've ever seen that kind of shared kiss fuelled by alcohol. That was…." "Something else, I know," Cisco shakes his head again, and Barry wonders if there's something he wants to add, but he keeps mum. Barry continues the conversation by raising a question about the soiree they're about to attend in a week's time, answered by a grunt from Cisco. "Don't remind me," Cisco grits out his teeth, "I'm not ready to be roped into dancing with a hundred different girls and wanting them to be different." Barry nods, an action that proves to be in agreement to his friend's statement, and Cisco continues, "Every ball is ever the same. Nothing ever changes," he says with a degree of finality, and Barry answers, "Except for the ball where you meet the one you're supposed to marry." Cisco shakes his head, and Barry looks at him sideways. "See, it isn't supposed to be that way. You're supposed to marry for love and a lifetime, not for convenience and commitment." Barry raises both his eyebrows, in confusion or in agreement, he's not certain, but makes it a point to poke his friend. "Ah, don't go soft on me now." "Not ever," Cisco says defiantly, "but I do make a good point, don't I?" "Yes, but it's rarely ever happening that royalties marry for love. It's not in our cards, Cisco." "You don't know yet. You don't know that you'll meet her today, or I'll meet her today. All we know is that we can hope." At this, they both turn pensive, and comfortable silence settles between them.

Their horses tread softly on the ground, and walk in a soothing rhythm. Barry's almost content to keep it that way, until Cisco freezes in his spot and realises that the darkness is no longer provided by the canopy of the trees, but by the fact that they've gotten deep into the heart of the forest. "Barry…." he says cautiously, afraid to make a startling noise, and even as they are children of the brave and fearless, the princes look around the forest, seeing nothing but gaps between the menacing backdrop of the trees. Barry swallows and halts in his tracks without realising it, and Cisco manages to drop words in an attempt to converse. "We should go," he enunciates slowly, and Barry nods almost imperceptibly. What they're afraid of, they don't know, but they're more than willing to hightail it out of the forest, the adventure not as inviting as it once was. "I… told… you." Cisco grits between his teeth, and Barry flashes him a glare when his horse steps on a twig and snaps it into two—sending a reverberation throughout the eerily quiet forest. Suddenly, the princes take sight of pairs of yellow-black eyes, sharp as a knife and glinting, and Barry's breath hitches. Once.

Dire wolves step out and surround them, of majestic colours and form, and both princes find the terror lurking beneath the surface, one that hasn't haunted them for nearly two decades. More than a dozen wolfs start to smell at the surface their horses reside on, and as they're decidedly cornered, Barry decides flight instead of fight.

Wordlessly, he sends a stare to the other prince, who returns it with a single, firm nod.

All hell breaks loose at the moment their reins snap for action, and the wolves start sniping at the legs of their horses. Cisco pulls out his sword—a golden long-nose with a heavy handle—and proceeds to fend off the best of his attacks. Barry does the same and brings out the sword that has been gifted to him by his grandfather, and tries his best to protect his horse from the unleashed attacks of the dire wolves.

It seems like frozen time but the attacks keep on coming, and Barry finds that he has no strength to fight. Cisco slashes and cuts but as Barry raises his arm to chop off an appendage of a wolf, he loses his balance and falls to the ground, and suddenly, the biting teeth and snapping jaws are directed to him.

He hears the panic in Cisco's voice as he calls out for him, and he realises that he must be lost, buried underneath the mess of the dire wolves, and all he can hope for is for Cisco to go and get some help.

Some time later, the wolves have stopped sniping at him, and the forest is once again quiet, save for his erratic heartbeat and the soundless pouring of blood from his wounds. He finds that he can no longer do anything but lay between the fallen leaves, once alive, now shrivelled and left to die.

Before darkness shrouds him, he hears the quiet hooves of a horse and light footfalls, and he struggles to open his eyes, the slits unwilling and the action impossible. Instead, he is assaulted by the smell of wildflowers, so ambrosial, and as someone sneaks a pillow underneath his fallen form, all he can think of is that he's lucky to be off to heaven and not somewhere else.

The same scent of wildflowers is what rouses Barry awake—a scent strong enough to ease the pain out of his head and eyes for a short while, strong enough to make him open his eyes and realise that he's still alive.

And laying in a bed that's not his.

He takes his time looking around the humble room, with no furnishings and plain colours adorning the walls and oakwood closets lining either region. What completely misses him is the fact that he's unclothed, and that a beautiful girl has done the tedious job of undressing and nursing him back to health.

Well, it doesn't go unnoticed now.

Barry's eyes land on the first part of her: long, slender, smooth fingers gingerly checking his body for swelling or gashes that may have missed her scrutiny the first time, then her long, brown tresses, moving with her every action, and bouncing as if they had a life of their own, and the rest follows in perfect, tranquil order.

He sees her body: dressed in a neutral, perfectly boring, as Cisco would have described it, drawstring dress. With the shapeless form of the fabric hiding her body, Barry wouldn't have described the existence of curves or sharp lines, but he feels them hiding underneath the frumpiness of the hideous dress. With his arms still at his sides, he uses his eyes to roam over his nurse, and finds failure when he doesn't meet her eyes.

Until they do, and he finds himself falling into an abyss once again: completely different but heart-achingly new.

It happens when she inches forward, just a little bit, to look and probe at his hairline, when suddenly her arm drops another small inch and almost lands at his still hurting chest, and as she composes herself, looks at him with wonder and amusement and some emotion he can't quite place. But as the moment occurs, he finds that he no longer needs to place it—just the contentment of sharing a gaze with her should be enough to quell his hunger for curiosity.

Her eyes are a shade of mesmerising brown, something he never thought would captivate him. Long lashes frame her expressive eyes and meet with short, little wrinkles at the corners, only shown in affectionate laughs, something he'd like to get out of her as a reaction. The rest of her face follows, and it's as beautiful as her eyes. Barry is a prince who doesn't have the most excellent way with words, but suddenly he feels the urge to write a bard to describe every square inch of her marvellous beauty.

He's never been taken aback by just physical attributes; a prince of his stature has seen and felt many beautiful women, knew them and saw them come and go, but this woman already has him in a twist, and he hasn't even heard her voice yet.

Somehow he knows it's going to be equally beautiful.

He stares at her for an eternity, an infinity sliding into what seems like forever, and even with the pain in his side, Barry doesn't will his eyes away. But she does, and seemingly in a trance, she snaps out of it, quickly, before straightening up and looking at him, this time, more clinical than adoring.

"You're awake. Finally," she says softly, and Barry feels his heart skip beats.

She offers a tentative smile as she tenderly presses her fingers against the cool skin on his forehead, then sliding to his neck, and asks him, "How do you feel?"

Barry listens to her voice and hardly registers her question, and has to gulp before answering. "Not… so well." He says and ends in a raspy voice, and the girl—the angel—beside him nods softly before turning around and providing a tall glass of water for him to drink.

She helps him sit up and inclines the glass carefully, so as not to spill, and lets him drink laboriously. As he reclines, she puts away the glass and he tries to find his voice, lost somewhere between the rasp and the hurt he's suffering through.

"Who.. are you? Where am I?"

The angel beside him smiles and answers his queries, and Barry feels as if she could've told her the world was burning and he would believe her. "I'm Caitlin. You're in Snowcastle. I assume you still remember what happened to you," she surmises, and Barry nods once, "as I don't. You were bleeding out, in the forest, and I had to come and bring you here. To heal you," she adds, and Barry has never felt more ungraceful and grateful at the same time.

"Thank you," he says, "for saving me. You're an angel." She lets out a small laugh, and Barry wonders what could've been so humorous for her to actually laugh. "You told me I was an angel, when you were slipping in and out of consciousness," she explains with a smile, and Barry's more certain that she's truly an angel sent from heaven. "You said I was in Snowcastle. Where's that?" Barry asks, and he sees the angel—Caitlin—look around the room before answering. "It's south of Sterling and Keystone kingdoms, and is very near the western region of the Central Kingdoms. I don't know what kingdom you came from, and I assume you aren't from Santa Prisca, so you must reside near the Central Kingdoms, yes?" Caitlin asks, and Barry doesn't know whether he should omit the truth or tell it—for even if this woman was beautiful, she could easily be as sly as a witch and use it against his advantage. For the moment, he chooses to omit, and nods again, content to listen to the musical tone of her voice. But as his queries stop, so do her answers, and Barry chooses to ask her more, just to hear her talk.

"Why did you bring me here?"

"Like I said, I wanted to heal you. You needed to be healed," she adds, and Barry believes her. "I was walking through the forest when I saw you lying there, and if I had taken too long to ride, I might have been too late." Barry doesn't know the fear in Caitlin's heart when she saw him, the blood from his body leaking out too fast and too willing for her to stop. "I'm glad that the bleeding has ceased," she comments, and Barry notes the makeshift bandage she has wrapped around his abdomen, and the chill on his shoulders, unprotected by the flannel sheets that warms the rest of his body. "Thank you, for this." Barry says, and Caitlin gives a pert nod. "You've thanked me enough, sir. I shall bring you something hot and something to eat, for you must be famished." Barry opens his mouth to abject, but the growling in his stomach intensifies, and Caitlin lets out a small laugh.

He lays back on his pillows as the oakwood door closes, and Barry closes his eyes in serene warmth, not once realising that he hasn't told the angel his identity.


	3. wide eyes

Caitlin, his angel, as he has resorted to calling her, returns about half an hour later, with quiet footsteps and slow movements towards his lying form on the bed. He watches her intently as she puts a silver tray on the nightstand and puts away his medicines on a different shelf—all in precise movements with her deft hands. Once she settles, she pulls up a chair the same shade as the bed frame and straightens as she sits down near his bed. She then uncovers the bowl from the tray she laid out and a spoon, and looks at Barry with meaning.

"You need to eat," she says, and Barry stays quiet, content to hear just her voice and do what she's asking of him. "You need sustenance. This is soup of asparagus and chicken. It should make you feel much, much better." Caitlin smiles at him convincingly, and he sits up to eat the soup. But just before he grabs the spoon, Caitlin positions herself to do the job—a wish Barry wanted but never thought he'd be graced.

They're quiet as Barry sips the soup and Caitlin fishes out, a methodical repeat of the same steps, but there's a degree of domestication in the deed and Barry feels a warmth spreading in his heart. Once they finish, Caitlin puts away the dish bowl and switches to check on his wounds and scrapes, intending to replace his bandages. Barry looks at her and follows her every action with attentive eyes, and it's when Caitlin frowns and wrinkles her forehead for the first time since they've met that he worries. "What's the matter?" "Your wounds are healing, save for the one on your left side," she says, the frown still on her lips, a matter Barry believes will be relieved by a kiss, but he doesn't move. "I may have to use a new poultice of lemongrass and witch hazel, or something else," she mutters, and Barry doesn't worry. "You may have to stay for a while," she comments, and Barry looks at her. "How long do you think it will take for me to heal?" Caitlin looks at the ceiling for a moment, and answers his query. "Perhaps a week, give or take a day," she says uncertainly, and Barry smiles at her with humour in his eyes. "I guess I'd have to be your prisoner of the castle," he says jokingly, but something in Caitlin's eyes snaps at his comment. "It's not as if I intend to keep you captive," she snaps, with enough ice to freeze him and hinder a response. He opens his mouth, but Caitlin cuts him to it.

"I don't even know your name," she says softly, as if it was an afterthought. Barry takes pause and realises that the joke might not have meant humorous to her, and clearly something happened in the past to have her snap with one statement. So he does what he does best—charm and fancy the pants off a lady in his presence.

"Barry," he says, as softly as Caitlin did, and she looks over to him. "Barry's my name," he adds as an explanation, and Caitlin offers a sharp, curt nod. "Well, sir, I hate to have you incapacitated and injured in this castle and healing, but you've yet to have everything in your body in tip-top shape for you to head off again." Caitlin's voice is cold, so unlike the caring one he heard before. He looks at her and waits for her to turn her head and look at him less sharply, and when she doesn't, he makes the noble effort to clasp her wrist and tug at her arm softly.

He gets the response he was seeking, a surprised, softer look on her face, and he speaks. "I thought we were in a place enough to warrant to be on a first-name basis, Caitlin," Barry says her name teasingly, with a hint of affection all the same, and Caitlin smiles at him. The sight does things to his heartbeat, and he waits for her to speak. "I apologise for my response earlier, if I seemed too rash. I don't want you to get the wrong idea, and my only intentions are for you to heal." Caitlin's statement is brief and on point, and while he knows her words are true, he can't help but be saddened at the fact that his betterment is all Caitlin wants and nothing else.

Caitlin looks at him with the same warmth in her eyes, and she continues. "Don't fret. It'll only take a while for you to fully recover, and then you'll be able to run on your horse and frolic in other forests." The prince in him is worried for the responsibility that's accumulated over time, but the man in him is happier for this short reprieve he's been given, albeit the injury that brought it. With Caitlin's words, he remembers his horse, and asks her about it. To which Caitlin tells him that he's well tended to and fed, and that he suffered the worst and not his charger. He relaxes, and Caitlin stares at him with an inquisitive look in her eyes. "What have you been doing in the forest?" Barry looks at her, intent to know the answer, and he raises an eyebrow. "Ah, so the questions start." "I don't mean to pry," Caitlin says, and a blush diffuses throughout her cheeks, making her look adorable. "I just want to pique my curiosity. I think I deserve an answer after tending to your wounds and carrying you for at least six miles of winter roads." It's Barry's turn to blush, as he's equally embarrassed and impressed at the declaration of Caitlin. "I was riding with my friend, Cisco," he recalls fondly, "and we were killing time. I wanted to explore the darkness of the forest, but he didn't, and we fought kindly about it until I coerced him to go with me. We didn't notice that we were in too deep, and before we could turn back, dire wolves jumped out of the trees and attacked us." Barry doesn't realise that he had been holding his breath, and Caitlin grasping his wrist softly, not her first touch, but certainly something of a surprise other than clinical presses and tests. "I don't recall much after that," he says wryly, "other than the fact that I fell to the ground and stared up at the dark sky. I hope Cisco was able to return home safely and unscathed." Caitlin looks at her with simmering anger in her eyes, and cinches his wrist. "You shouldn't have had half a mind to head to the forest just to explore. You very well should know that dire wolf attacks could render one paralysed from the waist down. You were left bleeding out. You could've died," she ends on a scalding note, and Barry feels the resentment waving off of her in waves. "I didn't," he says simply, and Caitlin isn't a bit placated by the thought, but he has to try. "I'm alive. And grateful and thankful that you were there to save me," he thinks, and asks a question of his own. "What were you doing in the forest?" "I was going for a walk, and looking for hunt." His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "You hunt?" "Yes, don't you?" Caitlin asks, puzzled. "Surely a man like you would know how to hunt fair game," she adds, and Barry nods. "Yes, for leisure." "I hunt for sustenance," Caitlin adds. "I don't believe in killing another for survival, but it's how our world runs, unfortunately." Barry looks at Caitlin, all the while amazed and impressed at this amazing woman who could heal like a physician and hunt like an archer. "I don't either, but you're absolutely right." They both fall silent, each thinking of what the other said, until Caitlin breaks the impasse. "I've been taxing you. You must get some rest," and proceeds to arrange the sheets around him, careful not to chafe his wounds. Barry rescinds, but Caitlin is adamant and refuses to give in. "Get some rest," she repeats with much more intensity than the first time, and Barry sinks in the comfort of the pillows, not wanting to object. As he falls asleep, he thinks of what awaits him in the castle back home—and what awaits him in this castle.


	4. still

Caitlin Snow has always been structured, every bit of her life in perfect array.

She gazes at the sleeping man in her guest room, and with a pang in her heart, she knows he's there to ruin that perfect array.

But, she muses, it's not so bad when he's charming and smiling at her the way he does.

Suddenly, an icy fist wraps around her heart, and she grips the door at which she rests her back.

 _Don't fall for him. He's nothing but a man._

Caitlin looks at the man—Barry, he told her his name—and surmises that his wounds must have sapped all of his energy. Which works just as well, as she has no more energy to be a great entertainer to an unexpected but certainly not unwelcome guest—Caitlin's been taught better manners than that. She remembers the early instruction she received from her mother and grandmother, both queens of the castle, and both menacing when they desire to be. To her, they are both ruthless and merciful, and even as Caitlin preferred the latter, they always had a way to show her that a queen must be able to assert control and isolate her feelings from her missions.

A fact that Caitlin has learned all too well.

In a haze, she walks out of the room and shuts the door quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping man, and walks down the many steps of the castles. When she enters the room she was seeking, her eyes suddenly fall shut, and Caitlin's aware that she's all but melted into the palace floors, and strives to straighten her posture.

The room of her instruction was never named, but always secluded. Caitlin remembers all the nights she spent here, all of her energy radiated in waves and none left for her, tiredness enveloping her like a glove. Caitlin recalls her days spent, from waking moments to the night waxing into darkness, and remembers that she barely had any time to enjoy her childhood and her adolescence, stuck in a routine she can't break, with her instructors inciting discipline and ruling into her young brain.

Years later, Caitlin's still as structured and polished and frozenly perfect as her instructors wanted her to be, and after years of asserting control over everything, she has finally perfected it.

What startles her and shakes her to the core was the arrival of Barry—something—and how one look has managed her to unravel everything she's learned and absorbed after decades of education. Barry succeeds at unraveling her, as well—as if his gaze held knowledge that she had no purview of.

Before Caitlin starts to wonder about him, she stops herself, forcing her mind to other things, such as the upkeep of the garden or the attic, instead of wondering what complexities Barry's mind might hold.

It might just interest her far too much.

Caitlin descends the castle staircase, bathed in a dark, bitter, glittering hue of blue, and she tenderly holds on to the rails as she takes hesitant steps. She crosses the wide hall, empty as an abandoned nest, and goes straight to the gardens.

Caitlin looks proudly upon the expanse of five hundred hectares of land, all blooming blue azaleas, tulips in azure, roses in lapis and hundreds of other unique flowers in arctic shades, only found in Snowcastle and no other land. With pride surging through her veins, she raises her hands, and uses her powers to revitalise the plants that have partly withered from a day's worth of unkempt.

Wisps of frost blast from her delicate hands, and Caitlin watches as the frost envelops each and every bud as it rapidly grows and glow with an iridescent light. The blooms unfold and turn their buds up to the high ceiling of the gardens, and Caitlin smiles.

The garden is the first thing Caitlin taught herself to nurture using her powers—and perhaps her only luxury. Aside from indulging in brews and potions to help cure those who are afflicted with pain and illness, she enjoys the beauty of manicured gardens and polished beds of flowers.

With a contented smile, she proceeds inside, and goes to the kitchen to prepare a meal for them. She notes the time, a quarter past seven, and lights the lamp that hangs over her head. With practiced ease and precision, she quickly chops venison for the stew and adds some herbs from the garden that she picked from her visit to the garden. As the stew boils on the clay pot, she leaves it on the fire and sets the table for two, and as Caitlin places the large plate of aquamarine and porcelain, she realises how intimate the setting is, with the hall's low lights providing the only source of light, aside from the slow flicker of candles. She almost drops the plate form her hands, and before an accident can happen, she places it firmly atop the cerulean silk cover of the long table, and folds neatly the bed for their utensils.

She walks back to the kitchen and prepares her thick mittens to put the dish out of the fire, and scoops out enough stew for the both of them—and some more, just in case Barry's got an appetite. _Patient,_ she thinks. _Barry is your patient._

Caitlin places the clay pot on a woven, teal circular sheet, and, once satisfied with her handiwork, heads upstairs to summon Barry—her patient.

She knocks, once, with no response, and two following brisk ones. Without any calls or grunts, Caitlin finds herself panicking, wondering what had happened—or where he could've gone.

She opens the door—thankfully finding it unlocked—and bursts in through the door, only to find Barry still in the bed, his eyes closed in relaxed bliss, and something jumps in Caitlin's heart as she observes the quiet beauty that Barry exudes in rest.

"I believe it's rude to stare at one while one is feigning unconsciousness in some cultures, yes?"

The quiet voice shakes Caitlin out of her apparently blatant staring, and she blushes rapidly, the blood rushing to her cheeks.

"Yes, well, I was not staring," she says adamantly, and Barry chuckles.

"You were, I'm afraid."

"I wasn't," she says firmly. "I simply wanted to see if you were still alive, as you haven't moved from your bed for so long, and I was tasked to see if you were alright." Caitlin's voice is firm, but loaded with worry, and Barry hears the tone of worry floating high from her words.

"Of course, I'm sorry," he says quietly, and Caitlin nods.

"I've prepared some dinner for you. Would you like to come downstairs? If you're feeling better, that is," Caitlin adds, and Barry nods to her query. "You'd have to help me come downstairs, I'm not in tip-top shape, exactly." He flashes her a boyish nod, and all Caitlin do is pause and stare again, before snapping out of it. "Yes, of course," she stammers, and walks by his bedside. Barry swings his long legs over the side of the bedframe, and braces his body to stand up. Caitlin doesn't speak as Barry winces with pain with every move he makes. Barry finally stands up to his full height, and Caitlin rushes to hold him. Barry almost collapses on his right foot, and Caitlin is careful not to hurt his torso.

What she isn't careful about is the proximity between their bodies.

Caitlin is hyperaware of Barry's closeness—how his strong chin firmly brushes the top of her head, and their bodies sharing heat due to their proximity. Her heart beats twice as fast as normal, and she's painfully aware of how it feels. When she held Barry against her for the first time, it felt nothing like this—it was a mix of nerves and cold fear that led her to bring a stranger to the castle, but now, he's conscious—alarmingly so, and Caitlin feels a shift in the air. All she wants to do is bring their bodies closer, even as they're not moving, seemingly unaware of the world that continues to revolve.

"Caitlin?" Barry's voice breaks the quiet, and Caitlin moves her right foot, in sync with his. In quiet understanding, they step the same feet in the same direction, and after ten agonising minutes later, they become seated at the table. Caitlin makes it a point to sit Barry comfortably first, despite his insistence of pulling out her chair, a suggestion she smiles at. "Perhaps another time, when you're feeling remarkably well," she suggests, and Barry smiles. "I will take you up on that," he agrees, and as Caitlin moves around the long table, she almost trips at her feet upon hearing Barry's next words. "When I'm doing much better, I shall take you out for a nice dinner, like a proper man should with a proper, accommodating, beautiful lady, such as yourself."

Caitlin's feet doesn't trip, but her heart does, and suddenly, as she looks in the man dressed in scarlet suit of armour and in wound dressing, she feels her world shifting, similar to the first time she saw him in the woods with a terrifying pool of blood beneath him.

Caitlin's unsure whether it's for the better or for worse, but a warmth spreads across her chest, making her feel warm, comfortably so, for the first time.

And so she purses her lips into a real smile, just for him.


	5. mystery

A/N! Hello, everyone!

I'm sorry to keep you waiting-academic workload has been too much lately, and as I'm finishing the semester, I wanted to upload this little chapter for you guys!

Again, let me know if you want any particular mysteries to be solved so I can incorporate it into the story (it's going along quite well!).

Thank you for your fantastic reviews!

* * *

Barry Allen has always figured people out.

From the moment he was a wee toddler, surrounded by his mother Queen Nora and his father King Henry, Barry was not a prince, but a young boy with a keen mind, sharp wit and ability to size up people at a moment's notice.

But at the moment, as he sits in a lofty chair in a sapphire hue, eating a simple meal across an otherwise lavishly handcrafted table meant for a feast amongst kings, he's not entirely certain whether his ability has stayed the same, throughout the years.

Looking at Caitlin, the woman who had rescued him from the forest, a woman of many capabilities, such as healing wounds, tending to the kitchen and perhaps rearing a castle as well, Barry figures that she must be one of a kind. He's never met any woman like her, he figures. No proper and polished debutante will surely have the bearing or the desire to search for game and yield a bow and arrow, or hoist and carry a wounded man and risk getting blood all over her ballgown.

Yes, Caitlin is one of a kind—and Barry can't figure out whether he wants to know more about the enigma of her character or let her remain a mystery to him.

Sitting across her from the long table, he looks at her quietly, her auburn curls pulled back in a ribbon the same shade as her no-nonsense dress, without a stitch of paint on her face, and Barry feels himself slipping, thinking of how beautiful she is, even in the low dimmer of the castle lights.

Slipping into a territory he has not yet explored—love.

For princes like him, it's merely a fantasy—a form of entertainment rendered in sweet kisses and long embraces, but entails promises of staying for years on end and commitments he can't make himself keep. It's an illusion created for those who seek it—even if in the end, they won't be merited.

But it's not definite that Barry doesn't want to feel it—he just hasn't found the right place in his life for it, as he says to his many advisers, dukes and duchesses, and even his own parents. For the reason that he's preoccupied with enjoying his liberty before he's fully groomed to take over his father's reign, and Barry tells himself the same when he feels the emptiness that resonates in him when he sees his friends waltzing with their spouses.

He's unsure whether he'll ever feel like that—at two decades and seven years old, Barry knows better than to wait—but sitting in his chair, looking at Caitlin, a wave of certainty crashes into him, nerves tingling his spine, and with cold fear and unmistakable confusion, he realises that the time must be now—that he can fall in love with a complete enigma and not be able to control himself, to cease the feelings that have developed over the course of two nights.

And for the first time in his life, the prince of Central Kingdoms is feeling two extreme feelings at the same time—love and fear.

And he doesn't know what overpowers the other.

Barry drops his fork on his right foot—a clumsy accident that has happened multiple times over the years at their own dining table—and bends over to pick it up, until a shooting, searing pain goes over his right side, and he lets out a loud groan, which alarms Caitlin.

She comes to him in delicate steps, each one seemingly measured and graceful, and tenderly presses his abdomen. "Is something wrong?"

"Dropped… my fork," he says without much sensibility, and he curses himself for it. Caitlin simply frowns, a crease appearing on her smooth forehead, and bends over to pick the darned fork up and places it daintily upon a folded doily.

"Did you hurt yourself?" she asks in a tone meant to soothe and calm, and even with the pain Barry feels on the right region of his torso, he's sure that he's never felt better, with Caitlin's gentle fingers touching him.

"I'm alright. I'm better than alright," Barry says with startling surety, and grabs Caitlin's wrist with a sure grip, her eyes widening in surprise and meeting his.

As their gazes meet, a familiar heat surrounds them, and even as Barry's standing on uncommon ground, he's certain about one thing—that Caitlin has never made him feel better, completely unlike anyone before.

And it scares him and amazes him, all at the same time.


End file.
